


can i call you tonight?

by emilybrontes_snail



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Stan Is Depressed, Teenage Losers Club (IT), and bill doesn't want stan to be depressed okay?, and growing up gay is scary, anyway stan deserves the world and he is going to escape from hashtag homophobia, but so what! who doesnt love gay and cheesy, goddaMN writing stutters is difficult, growing up is scary, lil bit of reddie, listen i'll update tags as i update chapters, lots of yearning lots of aching, mayhaps its a lil cheesy, thats just gay culture, they are seventeen and soft and sweet pls be kind to them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-01 04:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21374533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilybrontes_snail/pseuds/emilybrontes_snail
Summary: “Stan,” he said softly, without realizing he was speaking out loud.“Yeah?”Bill didn’t know what he was going to say.  He swallowed, trying to find words—any words—to compensate for the lack thereof.“Yeah?” Stan repeated.“I-I don’t want you to be alone in this.”  Bill let the silence wash over them both until Stan whispered back.“I want you to come over.”
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

For the sixth time that summer, Stan snuck his family’s telephone into his room. It was obvious—there wasn’t a way for it not to be obvious when a corded phone was involved. The coiled cord ran from the kitchen through the living room, down the hallway, and snaked under his closed bedroom door. If either of his parents woke up to get water, they would surely trip over the tight, clothesline-like wire cutting through each room, but Stan wasn’t worried. They hadn’t woken any other times that summer; his parents seemed to sleep like bricks for the past few years, probably to compensate for the year all those kids went missing.

The summer Stan came home with deep bite marks on either side of his face, blood running down his cheeks and neck like rain water.

Stan didn’t like to think about that summer. He couldn’t recall what gave him those marks (He supposed that must be a repressed memory—something he learned about in the psychology class he was taking), but every now and then, he dreamt about them. For the sixth time that summer, Stan dreamt he was alone, the sound of his breathing heavy and echoing in his ears. He dreamt it was dark and wet and suffocating, and he dreamt that despite the feeling of overwhelming isolation, there was something else there with him. Like every other time he had this dream, he felt the cold realization that he wasn’t alone, that he wasn’t safe, as if a glass of water was being poured slowly over his head, dripping and chilling him to the bone. The realization lasted only a second, and Stan woke up, gasping and shaking. For the sixth time that summer, Stan dragged a trembling hand across his sweaty forehead, closed his eyes, and breathed. For the sixth time that summer, he padded softly through his dark house in socked feet to the telephone in the kitchen.

For the sixth time that summer, Stan called Bill.

* * *

Bill picked up on the third ring. His room was the closest to the phone in the upstairs hallway. He had never been a heavy sleeper, and the shrill ring of the telephone jolted him awake. He knew who it was; despite the fact that this was hardly a nightly occurrence, Bill found himself in a routine. He slipped out of his bedroom and picked the phone off the receiver. For a moment there was silence on both of their ends. Bill waited, phone held to his thin chest, listening for movement from his parents room. Stan waited, phone to his ear, holding his breath as if the sound of it would be the catalyst that awoke Zack and Sharon Denbrough. A few minute-long seconds passed, in which the rustling of blankets replaced Zack’s snores. Then, the snores began again, and Bill let out a deep breath, barely aware he that he, too, had been holding it in. He slipped back inside his room, shutting the door carefully over his own phone cord, and lifted the phone to his mouth.

“Stan?” he said softly. Bill heard Stan let out a shaky exhale.

“Hey, Bill,” Stan whispered back. “Did I wake you up?”

“N-no, I was already aw-w-wake, you’re okay.” If Stan knew he was asleep every time he called, he wouldn’t call anymore. Bill was well aware of that. He knew Stan worried about burdening people, and Bill wanted him to feel as safe as possible. He didn’t want Stan to feel alone and unheard. Summer nights were unbearable enough when you’re lonely and seventeen; he couldn’t imagine having nightmares too. “Another bad dream?”

“Yeah. It was—it was awful.”

“Will you t-t-tell me what you remember?” There was a nervous silence on the other end. “O-only if you’re okay with th-that, Stan.”

“It was the same as it always is. I felt like something really bad was about to happen.” Bill heard Stan take a shaky breath on the other end of the call. “I’m scared, Bill. It’s like… I feel like it’s happening all the time, and it’s always the same. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“W-what if we snuck out?” Once again, Bill was met with a nervous silence. He didn’t blame Stan; Stan’s parents were strict, and if they knew Stan snuck out—even just once—they would be furious. Bill quickly changed course. “Or I c-c-could come over? I can buh-bring some ice cream or something. I just think we should t-talk about this. N-not on the phone, I mean.”

A moment passed in which neither boy said anything. Bill sat quietly on the edge of his bed, glancing around his moonlight-bathed bedroom. His eyes landed on a shitty Polaroid tacked on the wall opposite him. It was labeled _Halloween, ‘92,_ and in it, Bill and Stan sat side by side on the floor of Richie’s basement. Bill was dressed as Indiana Jones and grinning at Stan, whose head was thrown back in eternal laughter. Stan was dressed in bright red overalls, claiming he was “Dennis the Menace”, and he was wearing Bill’s brown Indiana Jones fedora, curls poking out over his forehead and ears. Bill smiled at the Polaroid, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Stan,” he said softly, without realizing he was speaking out loud.

“Yeah?”

Bill didn’t know what he was going to say. He swallowed, trying to find words—any words—to compensate for the lack thereof.

“Yeah?” Stan repeated.

“I-I don’t w-w-want you to be alone i-in this.” Bill let the silence wash over them both until Stan whispered back.

“I want you to come over.”

* * *

By the time Bill made it three blocks over to Stan’s house, snuck around the back, and hoisted himself through Stan’s open bedroom window (ripping his old ninja turtles t-shirt in the process), the strawberry ice cream he brought with him tucked under his arm was half melted. Neither boy seemed to care; they ate straight from the carton on the carpeted floor of Stan’s room.

Stan felt calm. Bill always made Stan feel calm. He had a way about him that made a person feel safe and protected. Maybe it was the way he always stood tall; how despite having the scrawny body of a perpetually sick and sleep-deprived boy, he seemed strong. Maybe it was the way he spoke; how despite his quiet stutter, his voice seemed to command to be listened to. Stan didn’t feel safe a lot of the time, especially after the summer of 1989. He didn’t know why he felt afraid and in danger, but he did know that when Bill was around, his heartbeat slowed to a steady beat, his body relaxed, and he felt safe.

He felt comfort.

In between spoonfuls of ice cream, they whispered about Jurassic Park (the losers had gone to see it in theaters together about a month prior and still couldn’t get it out of their heads), Mia Zapata’s death (not only had that been on the news for the past week or so, but Richie could not stop talking about any potential theories), and Peter Gordon getting arrested for shoplifting at Keane’s drugstore. Bill waited to ask about the nightmare until the last bit of the ice cream had been scraped out of the carton and eaten by Stan.

“Stan,” he whispered. “W-will you talk about it?”

Stan’s face, still lowered to face the ice cream carton, fell. The soft smile that had rested on his face for the past twenty minutes or so faded. He knew he should talk, but he didn’t even know how to explain anything he was feeling with words.

“St-Stan, please,” Bill said again. “You know I’m one of your b-b-best friends—I’m not gonna, I-I don’t know, make fun of you—”

“I know you’re not gonna make fun of me,” Stan muttered. Bill was a little bit surprised to hear that Stan’s voice sounded choked up and broken.

“Hey,” Bill said softly. He gently pushed the empty and sticky carton away from them and crawled next to where Stan sat, motionless. “Hey, I don’t want to m-m-make you do anything you d-don’t want to do, but I think you should talk about th-this. I-i-if you don’t want to talk to me, that okay. I promise it is. B-but talk to someone.”

Stan said nothing for a moment, only shifted his body so that his arm pressed delicately against Bill’s. Bill tried not to notice the simple and almost unintentional movement, but he could feel the heat rising in his neck and cheeks. _Focus_, Bill thought to himself. _Focus on Stan_. His heart was pounding, but Stan didn’t seem to notice. Worried that he would fuck up his words any more than he already did if he spoke now, Bill let the quiet between them simmer.

Stan’s heart was beating faster and faster. He could feel little jumps in the small muscles in Bill’s arms, and as he noticed each one, he then noticed that he was noticing the little things. Stan took a deep breath. Things were different when he was with Bill—not bad, just different. Stan wasn’t used to it—the soft, thoughtless touches and each glance they shared when everyone got together. Stan knew exactly what he was feeling (this love, this deep love); he had known it for years. He had lived with this aching feeling since the day of the blood oath. Bill’s eyes were soft and strong at the same time, and his small and scared thirteen-year-old self thought _Oh, I love him_ clear as day in his mind. It ached to see him looking at Beverly with those soft and strong eyes, but Stanley loved Beverly too—not in the same way, but it was still love. If she was happy, and if Bill was also happy, then Stan could grasp at that and live in his own imitation of happiness.

And then, one day, Bill stopped looking at Beverly with those eyes. His eyes turned to Stan’s, and they would linger with a soft smile as well. A little nagging voice in Stan’s brain told him that he was overthinking everything. Eye contact and little smiles shared between two people were normal things in a friendship. That voice didn’t stop his heart from pounding every time Bill looked at him though. And it definitely didn’t stop his heart from pounding as he sat on the floor of his room as their thin arms pressed into each other, stuck in a silence broken only by the sound of the air conditioning shuddering underneath Stan’s window.

Stan thought deeply as they sat in silence together. He thought about Bill and everything Bill had said over the phone. He thought about Bill sneaking in through his window with strawberry ice cream because he didn’t want Stan to be alone. He thought about Bill now, quiet and breathing and sitting next to him. He had never told anyone the actual details of his dreams, only called Bill when they happened, and Stan loved him. Stan trusted him.

He took one more deep breath.

“It’s always the same,” he whispered. Bill turned his head to face Stan, but other than that he didn’t move. Stan swallowed and continued. “It’s always cold. And dark, you know? Too dark to really see where I am. And it’s quiet, so every sound that I make echoes. I’ll take one step or something and it’s like I’m moving in front of—of a megaphone or something. And I’m scared. I’m really really scared but I don’t know why I’m scared.” Stan could feel tears pushing at the backs of his eyes, and he tried to steady himself. _Breathe_, he thought, but when he spoke again, his voice came out shaking and thick. “I don’t know why I’m scared, and then all of a sudden it’s like, like I just know. I’m not alone in there anymore. And it’s bad because I don’t want to be alone, but this is worse. I would rather be alone than be with whatever is in there with me. And—” Stan stopped. If he spoke about this anymore, he would cry. No, he would sob. The panic was rising inside of him, overwhelming him with everything he had kept under lock and key for the past few years. He felt like he was overflowing.

Bill moved. His arm, once pressed against Stan’s own trembling one, slid around Stan’s shaking frame, and Stan felt himself curling into the safety of Bill’s body. He began to cry, whispering a soft, “I’m sorry,” into the fabric of Bill’s t-shirt.

“Y-you can cry,” Bill mumbled into Stan’s hair. “It’s okay. I’m h-here, and I’m not l-leaving.”

“I don’t wanna have these dreams anymore.”

“I know you d-don’t.”

“Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“They don’t even feel like dreams. They feel like memories.”

Bill felt his grip on Stan tighten ever so slightly. Stan was terrified; he understood that now. This was something he had dealt with for a long time, longer than Bill knew, and he had dealt with it completely alone until recently. Bill felt scared. He could feel his own throat closing up around tears, and something in him whispered, _I can’t let go of him. _

Out loud, he said, “I’m not leaving you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went feral writing this, you can ask my girlfriend. she will vouch for me.
> 
> anyway, the title is taken from "Can I Call You Tonight?" by Dayglow. Listen to feel deep yearning and loneliness, you will not be disappointed.
> 
> last but certainly not least... if i don't update this by, idk, christmas, pls tell me to update this goddamn thing. i love these gay boys, sometimes i just need validation and motivation :)


	2. Chapter 2

Stan thought that the summer of 1993 would last thirty years. Sleepless nights painted deep circles under his eyes, and in a desperate attempt to both spend the sunny days with his friends and keep himself from passing out from pure exhaustion, he started drinking coffee with his parents at breakfast. As strict as they were, his parents didn’t mind much. Donald had hardly noticed a third cup being filled each morning, and Andrea had only sighed and thought to herself about how quickly her little boy was growing up. Richie, however, had taken to relentlessly teasing him about it when, on an exceptionally hot day in late July, Stan showed up at the clubhouse with a half-empty mug of still-steaming black coffee clutched tightly in his hand.

“Oh my god, look at you,” he nearly yelled in that I’m-forcing-your-ears-to-listen-to-me voice of his. “You tuck in your shirt everyday, you laugh at jokes that make no sense to anyone but yourself, and now you’re drinking coffee out of a mug? Who are you, everyone’s dad?”

“Shut up.”

“What are you going to do, Stan? Look at me over the top of your newspaper and tell me to go mow the lawn?”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan laughed, but his stomach twisted in a pang of guilt when, across the clubhouse, he saw that Bill was sporting his own dark circles and stifling a yawn behind his hands. Bill was good at hiding his sleep deprivation, He always seemed to be wide awake when Stan, heart lurching and sinking with guilt, called him—cheery, even, when he would crawl through Stan’s window each night. Bill had begun keeping an alarm clock under his pillow, which screamed like a banshee each morning at 2:00 a.m. His parents didn’t drink coffee, but the shrill shriek of the alarm clock was enough to wake him up completely. Stan usually called right around 2:10, which gave him ten minutes to breathe and slow his fight-or-flight response-triggered heartbeat. Within these ten long minutes, Bill would also pull on a sweatshirt and tennis shoes, slip out of his room for a glass of water, and wait patiently by the phone in the hallway. It was a full routine by now, and by that sunny July day, Stan was calling nightly.

Bill was exhausted; anyone could see that. As Richie made fun of Stan and his coffee, Mike turned to see Bill with his eyes hardly open, leaning against one of the clubhouse’s posts.

“Bill, you good?” He asked.

“Yeah, j-just… just tired, I-I guess,” Bill mumbled, trying (and failing) to stop a yawn from escaping. His nightly adrenaline rush was usually used up by 10:00, and that day was no exception.

Mike chuckled. “Maybe you should ask Stan for some of his coffee.”

Bill looked over at Stan, who met his eyes with a worried look on his face. Bill offered a smile, a tired half one that caused Stan to glance down and (blush—was he blushing?) smile into his coffee mug. Bill’s heart jumped—no, leapt to his throat, and suddenly, he felt a little more awake.

“I th-think I’ll do that,” He said to Mike, who, having already moved on from the conversation, was telling Ben about the loft he was helping his dad build in their barn.

Bill weaved past the hammock, where Beverly was lying and laughing at Richie who was fending off a particularly feral Eddie, ducked under a particularly low beam, and sat next to Stan on an overturned wooden crate.

“S-spare some c-c-coffee, kind sir?” he said in a soft voice.

“You sound like Richie,” Stan said through a laugh, and offered him his mug. “I didn’t sweeten it, so be warned.”

Bill, not sure what to expect, took a gracious drink, and cringed. Stan laughed again, watching his face scrunch up and force the mouthful down.

“God, that’s awful.” Bill coughed as he pushed the mug back into Stan’s hands.

“I warned you.”

The two sat in comfortable quiet for a moment and watched as Eddie stole Richie’s glasses from off of his face and laughed like a movie villain. Richie yelled in exasperation, but no one made a move to help him. It was their weird way of flirting, and everyone knew Richie was secretly loving the attention Eddie was giving him.

Stan felt a tug at the mug in his hands. He relinquished it, and looked over at Bill, who took a careful sip of the bitter coffee. Stan felt a pang of guilt return to his stomach, and, looking back down at his empty hands, muttered, “I’m sorry, Bill.”

“Hey, wuh-why?”

“You’re exhausted—it’s so obvious. And, I mean, you need sleep. I don’t want to make you tired all the time.”

“Stan—”

“They’re just dreams, I can live with them.”

“S-Stan—”

“I’ll let you sleep; you need that.”

“Stan! Listen to me!” Bill grabbed Stan’s arm, and Stan fell silent. “I w-want you to call me when you have these dr-dreams, okay? I r-r-really do. Answering the phone and c-coming over is my choice. Y-you know that, right? I am ch-choosing to be with y-you.” Stan looked at Bill, eyes wide and cheeks tinged pink. Bill felt heat in his own face and stuttered, “I-I-I'm choosing t-to be there f-for you.”

But he didn’t let go of Stan’s arm, or look away. Both of them were very aware of this.

“Okay,” Stan whispered.

Finally, Bill broke the loud silence between them by turning back to the world inside their clubhouse and trying another sip of coffee. Cringing again, he pushed the mug back into Stan’s hands and said, “How ‘b-bout this: I’m going to k-keep coming over each n-n-night—” _because I don’t want you to be alone_, “—and y-you start making two mugs of coffee each muh-morning.”

“You want to start drinking black coffee?” Stan scoffed.

“Well, I mean, if you’re feeling f-f-fancy, you can s-sweeten one of them.” Bill let Stan chuckle, and then added (in an attempt of an afterthought, but what was really part of what he had been wanting to say for a long time), “I’ll get used to d-drinking black coffee if it muh-means I can be with you.”

Stan smiled, and the two lapsed back into a comfortable silence as the other Losers lived out their own thirty-year summers in front of them.

* * *

Later that day, Bill went back to Stan’s house, where Stan showed him how to use the Mr. Coffee in the kitchen. Over and over again, Bill found himself lost in thought; instead of focusing on what Stan was saying, he would notice Stan’s little smile and the way he moved his hands when he talked and each curl on his head and the way he got distracted by movement out the kitchen window (“is that—holy shit, is that a red-bellied woodpecker? Holy shit! I think it is! Wait, no. Never mind.”) and the way he held his coffee mug delicately in his hands and the way he sat without hunching over at the table as the coffee was being made. 

Anyone outside on Bill’s route back home from Stan’s house would have assumed that the boy on the old silver bike was either badly sunburned or had just been kissed for the first time by a very pretty girl. The boy on the old silver bike, however, was lost in thought. There was a small smile playing on his lips, and he was replaying the little wave his best friend gave him as he rode his bike down the street. Bill took the long way home, thinking hard about the fluttering in his stomach, about the way his heart seemed to twist each time Stan so much as looked at him, and about each night they had spent together that summer. When he made it home, Bill let his bike crash to the floor of his garage and dashed upstairs to wash up for dinner. He froze when he stepped into his room, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the Polaroid tacked to his wall. 

_ Halloween, ‘92 _ .

And suddenly Bill understood what he was feeling. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered aloud, to nobody in particular. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bill denbrough is babey that's all i have to say on the matter


End file.
